A Secret 'Twixt Us Two
by brickroad16
Summary: A George Eliot/Daniel Deronda-inspired take on Merlin. AU. M/M. Slight A/G.
1. Men's Taste Is Women's Test

Disclaimer: I own neither _Merlin _nor _Daniel Deronda_. My brain is just crazy and likes to run wild at times. :P

A/N: Sooo, this is a _Merlin _fic, but it's based on George Eliot's 1874 novel, _Daniel Deronda_. I was watching an adaptation the other day and realized how perfect most of the characters are, so I said, "What the heck!" and sat down to write. Here's a quick list of characters and their DD counterparts:

Morgana Gorlois - Gwendolen Harleth  
Gwen - Mirah Lappidot/Cohen  
Merlin Ambrose - Daniel Deronda  
Arthur Pendragon - Hans  
Sir Gaius - Sir Hugo Mallinger  
Alvarr - Grandcourt  
Aglain - Lush

Feel free to tell me how crazy I am after you read this, haha.

A big thank-you to** wickedinsanity **for the beta! :)

* * *

He walks unnoticed into the room, the crowd around the roulette table immediately catching his eye, a glimpse of ivory skin visible through the bystanders. Most are too absorbed in the games of chance to spare him a glance, leaving him at his leisure to contemplate the woman commanding the room. This room is hers, and she knows it, desires it even. He can see with just a cursory glance that half the men are after her, and the other half wish they were free to pursue.

After bending down to murmur an observation to her companion, she straightens and returns to play, showing the full height of a graceful figure. Her skin, so delicately pale, is thrown into relief by wavy black tresses, and she wears a jade necklace, its gems blazing green, that brings out her emerald eyes. It's those eyes that enchant him. They burn with intelligence, restlessness, passion, and . . . magic, he thinks. And yet her haughty, aloof manner veils it all.

He has to consciously squash his own magic down to keep it from being noticed.

"Not _again_, Merlin. Who is it this time?" comes a voice.

Merlin can sense his friend's smile without even shifting his gaze. Reluctantly, he tears his eyes away from the beauty and turns his attention to Arthur Pendragon.

They'd met a few months ago, at the behest of Merlin's uncle, Sir Gaius, and Arthur's father, Uther. The two old school friends had thrown their son and nephew together to fulfill the last leg of their education, the Grand Tour. Bored and even slightly lonely, the boys had agreed somewhere between Madrid and Barcelona to stick together for company.

Their teasing had arisen naturally within a few days of their acquaintance. For a few days was all it had taken for Merlin to notice how women throw themselves at Arthur, and for Arthur to notice the dazed look on Merlin's face whenever he's met with a pretty face.

Now, Arthur follows his gaze across the room.

"Oh, no," he sighs, his lips pursed in agitation.

"You know her?" Merlin queries, not at all put out by his friend's tone.

He's just the sort of fellow for whom nothing is good enough, and that includes most of the women he meets.

"That," he emphasizes, "is Morgana Gorlois, eldest daughter of my father's late friend. We practically grew up together."

"Why do you say it like that?"

"Because. She's turned into quite the beauty, as you have so aptly noticed. But she can break hearts just as easily as she takes them."

Merlin grins. "It sounds as if you've experienced this first hand."

"Don't be daft," Arthur scoffs. "Only as a first-hand observer. She's not the girl for me."

"Of course," Merlin chuckles as he rolls his eyes. "Then you'll have no objection to introducing us."

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

Morgana is only dimly aware of Arthur's lips brushing the back of her hand. She's too enraptured by the stranger beside him. He is tall, but not overly so, with rich black hair to complement his fair skin. He's well-dressed in a slightly overlarge black suit, with a neatly-pressed striped vest and an impeccably-tied cravat, and she admires the bright square of red handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. Not typically handsome, he nevertheless possesses lovely, angular cheekbones, and a dazzling smile.

But she's unpleasantly aware of how his eyes, unlike anything she's encountered before, haven't released her yet. They're a deep shade of blue, the pupils surrounded by a ring of gold flecks.

Then he takes her hand in greeting, and she seizes the moment to regain control of her senses.

Offering an aloof, condescending smile, she says, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ambrose."

"Merlin, please," corrects the gentleman in question, and she notices his slight Irish brogue, partially concealed by long periods of travel.

"Merlin, then."

Arthur, his gaze meandering over the company, asks, "Have you had any luck at the roulette table tonight?"

"Loads," she answers breezily. "I've won 200 ₤ already."

"I shouldn't be surprised. Fortune has always smiled upon you."

Catching the look on Merlin's face, Morgana says, "What's the matter, Merlin? Don't you approve of a woman gambling?"

Merlin smiles hesitantly. "Judging from your success, I wouldn't think a woman like you would need my permission."

She raises a brow in amusement. "'A woman like me'? And just what sort of woman do you believe me to be?"

The tips of his oversized ears turn a furious shade of red, and, looking down at his shoes, he stammers, "T-that's not exactly what I meant."

"Then perhaps you should explain yourself. You have piqued my curiosity"

"Morgana," Arthur chastises lightly, "stop being so vexing. He's not used to your sense of humor."

"Very well," she concedes, a hint of mischievousness still lingering in her smile. "But only for you, dear coz. Are you staying long in Libron?"

"No. I sail on Thursday."

"Mr. Ambrose, will you be returning to England as well?"

He simply nods, perhaps afraid any utterance will prompt her teasing.

Arthur, with a slight roll of his eyes, explains, "He has come to live with his uncle, Sir Gaius."

"Oh! I did not realize he had a nephew."

"I've lived with my mother, in Ireland, until last April."

There, an explanation for his accent. A brief sadness flickers across his face, and she has a strong impression that Sir Gaius is the only family he has left.

"Well," she begins, her voice soft with genuine kindness, "perhaps you settling so close will allow us to better acquaint ourselves."

"I should dearly hope so."

* * *

No matter what Arthur may say, Fortune most certainly does not favor her.

She comes to this unhappy realization as she walks through the door of a French pawn shop, a jade necklace in her otherwise empty moneybag.

The clerk is unsympathetic to her plight, having seen too many similar ones over the years. And, though her French is impeccable, she's not used to haggling, and he won't give her more than nine louis. She'd been hoping for fifteen, but even that won't stretch very far.

She takes the money with a sigh and relinquishes the necklace.

It'd been a gift from her beloved father.

He should be here, to take care of the family, to find a solution to their current predicament. But he's not, and her mother is too ignorant of the world, her siblings too young, to really make a difference.

And so, by default, the burden falls heavily upon her fragile shoulders. It is a pity that this world is one in which her magic has no currency.

* * *

"Have you heard, Sir Gaius?"

Uther Pendragon, his hair silver with age, takes a puff of his cigar as he lets his question sink in.

They're in Sir Gaius's study, the light dimming as the sun sets. His sunken leather chair is comfortable against his tired back. He's getting old. Probably too old for gossip, but he's been a man of leisure for too long, and news of his neighbors at least gets him interested in something.

"I don't believe I have," Sir Gaius replies. "What's happened?"

"The Gorlois family has lost its fortune," Uther sighs. "Bad speculation, I've heard. It's a shame, really. Gorlois was one of my oldest friends."

Gaius takes a long, contemplative sip of his gin. "Perhaps we should do something for them?"

"What can we do? The oldest girl must marry well, that's for certain."

"You have a large acquaintance. Perhaps you can introduce her to someone."

"Yes," Uther murmurs thoughtfully, rolling his cigar in his fingers. He lifts his eyes to his friend. "What about that nephew of yours?"

"Merlin?" Gaius asks, eyebrow raised.

Uther shakes his head. "No. The other one."

"Alvarr?" The older man huffs. "He's a scoundrel and a reprobate if I ever saw one."

"But he is rich?"

Gaius nods grimly and confirms, "He is rich."

* * *

The package is small and plain, but Morgana can guess what it holds simply by its weight. She's gotten enough gifts like this throughout her lifetime. Delicately, she opens the end and lets a red handkerchief spill onto the table. She swallows thickly, lifts a corner of the handkerchief, and stares down at the necklace, the green gems glittering in the fading sunlight, shining brightly against the red cloth.

There's an accompanying note, she realizes belatedly.

It's written in a fine, masculine hand, and reads:

_Miss Gorlois appears to have misplaced something very dear to her. An admirer returns it in the hopes that she will be more careful in the future._

The gesture, however well-meant, stings her a touch, hits at the center of her pride. Her father is gone, leaving her the sole caretaker of her family, and she shouldn't have to rely on the generosity of new acquaintances. The option of returning it to Mr. Ambrose is nonexistent, for if she takes the liberty and is wrong, she will only look like a fool. However, neither can she accept it, not when the possibility of meeting him again is inevitable. He will suspect, _know_ her need, and leave her in hateful, helpless humiliation.

She may be penniless, but she's never been indebted to any man.

* * *

Merlin's never been much of an athlete. But Arthur is, and when they return to England via London, Arthur insists on a row trip on the river in order to get some exercise after their tour.

Arthur does most of the rowing. But he also makes his new friend take a turn, and so it's Merlin at the oars when they round a bend in the river and come across a young Moor on the bank.

Merlin stops rowing at the sight of the woman - black curls hanging loose and messy against her dusky, tear-stained cheeks, her feet in the water, her black dress floating about her knees. Arthur, lying back in the boat with his eyes closed to the sun, doesn't notice.

"What is it now, Merlin?" Arthur, without opening his eyes, complains at their sudden standstill.

"It's just, uh . . ." he stammers, clumsily attempting to steer the boat over to the shore.

"Merlin!" Arthur sits up, an annoyed scowl on his face. "Do I have to do _everything_ around -" He cuts himself off when he turns, sees the young woman, and nearly falls over the side of the boat. "Merlin, you buffoon! She's in trouble. We've got to help her!"

Merlin rolls his eyes as Arthur tears the oars from his hands and rows them speedily to the bank. When they're close enough, the blond man stumbles into the water and, wrapping his muscular arms around her slender stomach, drags her back to the bank.

The girl fights against him, beating her hands at his arms as he drags her along and deposits her gently on the grass.

"Will - you - get your hands off me?" she shouts, glaring at him.

Arthur shoots a bewildered look at Merlin, now dragging the rowboat to the bank. Merlin shrugs, and Arthur turns to face the girl again.

"Excuse me, but I just saved your life. A little thank-you would be common decency."

"I didn't need any saving!" she retorts. "I was in two feet of water!"

Merlin can't suppress a grin at her spirit, or the look on his friend's face. Arthur's not used to women who refuse to fall in love with him within moments of their meeting.

"Well," says Arthur, hands on his knees as he recovers his breath, "it didn't look like that. It looked like . . . like . . ."

"Like what?" she asks hotly, jutting her chin out in a challenge.

Arthur spreads his hands wide in confusion. "Like . . . you were going to . . ."

"Jump in, is what he means," Merlin offers. He juts a finger at Arthur. "He's not big on words, this one."

Surprisingly, she lets out a laugh and gives him a smile. "I can see that," she says.

"Thank you, _Merlin_," Arthur grumbles.

Merlin retrieves his jacket from the boat, sits down beside the woman, and slides it over her shoulders. She takes it gratefully, her fingers curling around the fabric's edge.

"Thank you . . ." she says.

"Merlin," he smiles. "Merlin Ambrose."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Ambrose. I'm Guinevere. But everyone calls me 'Gwen.'"

"Well, Gwen, I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, but I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep my overzealous friend from accosting you again."

From Gwen's other side, Arthur clears his throat.

"And that's Arthur Pendragon," Merlin grins, "your misinformed savior."

Gwen nods. "Hello, Mr. Pendragon."

Arthur gives a half-hearted wave.

Merlin clears his throat. "So, um, are you all right? You're not . . . in trouble or anything, are you?"

"What makes you think that?" she asks, but her voice is soft and shy.

Merlin shrugs. "It's not everyday a woman walks fully clothed into the river."

"Truthfully, I don't know what I was going to do."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she insists with a shake of her head.

"No," Arthur says softly, "you've been crying. Something's wrong. You can tell us. We can help."

Gwen bites her lip, glances fleetingly between the two of them. "My father's died." She takes a deep breath and continues, "He was everything to me, you see. Now I have nothing, no money, no situation . . . no family."

Merlin locks gazes with his friend, who sighs heavily and asks, "Do you have someplace to stay?"

* * *

Morgana strolls into the Pendragons' parlor with an enchanting smile to find the matriarch, Arthur's two younger sisters, and their new friend occupied in sewing and reading. Igraine, Arthur's mother, welcomes her with a warm embrace. She holds out her hand to Gwen, who comes forward and her head slightly.

"Morgana, this is Gwen. She'll be staying with us. Gwen, this is Morgana Gorlois. Her family and ours have been friends for a long, long time."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gorlois," Gwen greets.

"Oh, please," Morgana smiles, "it's Morgana. And I have the feeling we will be the best of friends."

She's a perfect socialite, her days consisting of meeting and charming new acquaintances, even when she has no fondness for them, but one look at Gwen's smile and she feels this friendship will be different.

The women turn when Arthur and Merlin stride through the door, and the younger Pendragon girls go wild at the sight of their brother's best friend.

"Merlin! Merlin!" they shout as he greets them in turn.

"Ah, Morgana," Arthur smiles, "you have impeccable timing. We were just about to go for a ride."

"A fortuitous coincidence indeed," she replies. "You know how much I love to ride."

Her collected and amiable demeanor cracks when Merlin steps forward to greet her. She's not wearing the necklace, and yet, embarrassed, she fumbles at the jewels around her neck. He smiles as he bends to press her free hand to his lips, and a blush rises to her pale cheeks as an unfamiliar warmth ripples out from the point where his lips touch her skin.

She reclaims her hand as quickly as propriety will allow, turning to Gwen with an overly enthusiastic smile.

"Are you fond of riding, Gwen?"

"Very," she confirms, "although I've not often had the chance."

"Well, the weather is perfect, and I can show you which of the Pendragon mounts is the sweetest."

* * *

As Fortune would have it, Morgana does not spend the majority of the ride by her new friend's side. Arthur seems to have taken a deep interest in the newcomer, and he takes the opportunity of being unchaperoned to get close to her under the guise of showing her the grounds.

Leaving Merlin to fall behind and ride beside Morgana.

She keeps her eyes ahead of her and on the path in an effort to avoid his gaze. As they ride in silence, the minutes stretch out before her, and it irks her to no end that he lets her stew so quietly. She's used to men trying to take the lead, take hold of the conversation, set the terms.

But Merlin is different, and she can't yet tell if he's too respectful or simply too shy to be the first to open his mouth.

Softly clearing her throat, she says, still without lifting her gaze to his, "I suppose I should thank you."

Merlin shifts in his saddle, but looks straight ahead and only says, "I'm afraid I must ask you for clarification, for I confess I have no idea what you mean."

And for just a moment, she wonders if she's gotten it all wrong. After all, there must be many red handkerchiefs in Libron. But then she sneaks a glance at him, catches the sparkle in his eyes, the twitch of his lips.

"You have no need to tease me, Mr. Ambrose," Morgana counters, a twinge of anger surging through her veins.

"And _you_ have no need to tease _me_, Miss Gorlois. You promised to call me 'Merlin,' did you not?"

"Ay, but that was before I knew you properly."

He purses his lips, confusion spreading over his pallid face. "You wish to dissolve our friendship so soon? I did not realize I had done ought to offend you. But perhaps you may enlighten me?"

The hurt in his voice makes her second guess his character, makes her think she's made an unfair judgment of him.

She dips her head and carefully smoothes out the wrinkles of her skirt. "I only meant that it is so soon in our . . . friendship for such familiarity, wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," he admits. After a pause, he says, "It's been my experience that ten years are frequently not enough for two certain people to become suitably acquainted, and yet ten hours may be all it that is needed for another two."

"You are referring, I believe, to the notion of so-called love at first sight, as one reads of in novels."

"No. Simply . . . a connection, I would say."

Morgana bristles, the shock of her magic spreading through her fingers as if his words have awakened something in her, something deep inside. Always on edge when someone even comes close to mentioning that forbidden topic, she takes a deep, calming breath and says, "And you imagine such a connection between you and me?"

"'Imagine'?" he chuckles. "I would never presume, my lady."

Morgana stifles a smile, the tension dissipating from her shoulders. She straightens again when two strange horses appear around the bend ahead. Arthur and Gwen have already vanished down the path, and these two new men, instead of passing quietly, pull up rein in front of them.

The first, with dirty blond hair, a greasy beard, and cold eyes, offers a lascivious smile, while the second, with a bald head and dark skin, dips his head respectfully.

"Ambrose," the blond greets, barely touching his hat.

Merlin gives him a slight nod, and the newcomer turns his attentions back to Morgana.

"And who might this be?"

Reluctantly, Merlin gestures toward his companion. "This is Miss Gorlois. Morgana, Alvarr Grandcourt and Aglain Lush."

"On a first name basis, are we, Ambrose?" Alvarr grins before leaning forward and taking Morgana's hand.

His kiss raises goose pimples on her arm, and she snags her hand away.

She smiles. "We are well acquainted, are we not, Merlin?"

"Quite," he says, returning the smile. Turning to Alvarr, he explains, "She is a close friend to the Pendragons."

"Ahh," Alvarr nods, "and you were Pendragon's traveling companion these past few months, I believe."

"That's right," Merlin affirms.

"Yes, we just met Pendragon a moment ago, and there was an exotic beauty by his side. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you now?" He laughs without waiting for a reply. "Well, I have business to attend to with Sir Gaius. We must be off."

"Then I will see you at Ealdor House tonight," Merlin ventures.

"Perhaps, but we will probably have concluded business by then." He tips his hat at Morgana. "A pleasure, Miss Gorlois. Good day."

Aglain repeats the gesture as the two ride off.

Morgana glances at Merlin, who squints into the sun to hide his emotions as he urges his horse forward.

"That man, I do not like," she declares, catching him up.

Merlin lets out a soft laugh. "Not many do."

"Yet you seem to know him well."

"He is my uncle's heir."

"You are cousins?"

"No. Alvarr is from my uncle's father's side. I'm just his nephew by marriage."

"I see. And so . . ."

"And so, when my uncle dies, Alvarr will inherit everything, including Ealdor House. I receive an allowance now, but that is likely to be cut off once Alvarr is in charge of Ealdor's income."

He sighs, and Morgana sends a silent curse skyward. Why is it that the rich men are always curs and the nice ones always penniless?

Fortune smiles upon her indeed.

* * *

When they reach the end of the grounds and turn for home, Merlin sidles his horse beside Arthur's and Gwen hangs back to stay beside Morgana.

Morgana, though still in the process of solving the mystery that is Merlin, is nevertheless glad to have a respite from the arduous task, glad for the opportunity to get to know her new friend.

"So," she begins, "how do you find Sigan?"

"He is the sweetest horse indeed," Gwen smiles, patting the horse's neck.

"I'm glad you like him. And the Pendragons, do you like staying with them?"

"They are very kind. And generous," she hastens to add. "Arthur and Merlin have even found me a position, as a seamstress."

"That's wonderful," Morgana replies. With a tilt of her head, she asks, "Merlin, too?"

Gwen confirms it with a nod. A slight smile on her lips, she says, "He is a kind-hearted man, and he seems to be fond of you."

Morgana's fingers grip tightly at the reins, her knuckles white with the pressure. "Yes, well," she breathes, "there is often a disparity between fondness and practicality, is there not?"

"Yes, I suppose there is," Gwen murmurs thoughtfully. Their horses seem to be slowing with the pace of the conversation, and they fall farther and farther behind the men. Another moment passes before Gwen says, "I have heard of your . . . troubles. Can you not find a situation? I'm certain Arthur and Merlin would help."

"I'm certain they would as well," Morgana smiles. "However, my choices are quite limited. I may either become a governess, or marry _very_ well. Either way, I condemn myself."

Yes, there is no hope in either path. If she becomes a governess, she will move from the very center of society to its outskirts, barely noticed by anyone except those who aren't supposed to notice her. And if she marries for her husband's fortune, it is unlikely that it will be anything more than a miserable marriage of convenience.

* * *

Alvarr smiles and taps his forefinger against the glass as Aglain pours him another glass of wine.

"Did you note the young lady with my uncle's nephew today, Aglain?"

"I did, sir."

"Do you know much about her?"

"Not much, though I have heard that her family has lately lost its fortune."

Alvarr takes a long drag of wine. "Well, that is a pity."

Aglain's spine stiffens imperceptibly, and he scrutinizes Grandcourt from the shadows of the room.

Standing abruptly, Alvarr crosses to the window, wine glass in hand. "Send in my acceptance to du Lake's dinner next week. For, if I'm not mistaken, Miss Gorlois will be there." He smiles, a wicked gleam in his eye, and takes another sip of wine. "And I mean to have her."


	2. Let No Flower of the Spring Pass Us By

A/N: Thanks to **wickedinsanity **for the beta. :)

I'm not one to beg for reviews, but if you favorite, let me know why you like my stories so much! I appreciate any and all feedback, so don't be shy!

* * *

Merlin takes a brief pause from the Dickens serial he's perusing to consider how the separate factors of a superb story, a good view, and autumn sunshine can produce a summation quite close to perfection.

And then a shadow descends upon him, and he realizes he's been caught out.

Thinking it's Arthur come to chastise him for reading in the middle of a picnic, he looks up and grins sheepishly, only to find Morgana framed in the golden light. The sight nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs, but he gulps and regains his senses.

"Oh, hi!" he greets, scrambling clumsily to his feet.

"Why, hello," she drawls lazily, a smirk on her ruby lips as she watches him rake a hand through his hair. "Reading at a picnic, Merlin? Arthur's told me tales of your unsociability, but I never expected this."

He turns bright red and rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm not usually this impolite, I can assure you."

"Oh?" She lifts a brow, and he gets the feeling that she'll never let him off easily, for anything. "So what's so important that you'll abandon your friends?" Sneakily, she snatches the paper from his hand and takes a look at it. Noting the serial, she says, "Ahh, Dickens. Well, now, _that_'s forgivable."

Like most of their conversations, he isn't sure whether she's teasing him. His school peers would taunt him relentlessly for reading such 'unrespectable' literature, so he's naturally a tad nervous when the subject comes up.

He clears his throat and stammers, "Do you, do you like Dickens?"

She regards him seriously for a moment before breaking into a smile. "I do," she says. "Immensely."

"Have you read the latest installment? You can read it if you'd like. It's quite good."

They haven't known each other for very long, but he's beginning to realize that she's brimming with constant surprises. Without replying, she takes a graceful seat on the blanket he's laid out on the grass and holds the paper out to him.

"Come," she requests with a gentle smile. "Read to me. For I haven't yet had the chance to catch up on the latest installment." When he hesitates, she adds, "And perhaps it will prevent others from thinking you're not taking part in the company."

Society expects certain behaviors of a fortuneless gentleman, behaviors which delineate a barrier between that gentleman and a lady of rank, a lady who is used to a life of leisure. And yet one meaningful look from her is all it takes for Merlin to forsake propriety.

He settles down beside her, takes the paper, and begins to read in a clear, measured voice. Morgana, with her head tilted back towards the sun and a fan in one hand, looks more relaxed than he's ever seen her. Before long, he loses himself in the spell woven by the fluid prose spilling from his tongue, the heady scent arising from the apple orchard, and the enchanting presence of his companion.

He raises his eyes when he reaches the end, surprised to find the rest of the party nowhere in sight.

"Oh," he exclaims, sitting up straight. "We've been left behind."

Morgana looks around, her lids heavy with laziness. He assists her to her feet and she surveys the orchard.

Unconcerned, she says, "No matter. We can catch them up."

Except she seems in no hurry to do so.

He inhales the refreshing aroma of the ripe fruit as they meander down the likeliest pathway, the apple trees shading their way. Morgana picks up a flower and begins to methodically dismantle it, petal by petal.

"Did you like the installment?" he asks.

"Very much," she confirms. "I do feel for Bella. She's in such an awful position."

"True, but she _could_ be a tad more amiable to John. He's in a position just as unpleasant."

Morgana smiles, tilts her chin toward the sky, and says, "Perhaps we shouldn't discuss this until we've finished reading their story. I wouldn't want to quarrel with you . . . without cause."

A chuckle escapes Merlin's lips as he shakes his head, but he doesn't offer a reply as they continue down the path, the rest of their company still not in sight. Rolling his hat between his hands, he prompts, "Arthur seems to be very fond of Gwen. I haven't known him as long as you have, of course, but he's happiest when he's around her, at least from what I can tell."

"Yes," she agrees, "I can't remember the last time I saw him so . . . carefree."

"She's good for him, I think."

A pensive look appears on Morgana's face as she stretches a hand out toward the nearest line of trees, her fingers just brushing the bark. She glances over at him and says, "His father . . . expects much of him. He can't see the goodness in his only son, and sometimes I think it's hard for Arthur to see the goodness in himself."

Merlin smiles and finishes for her, "And Gwen is so good at seeing the goodness in others."

"Yes," she agrees, a tentative smile gracing her lips.

He takes a breath and, his feet failing to propel him forward any farther, he watches her stroll in front of him, can't take his eyes from the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips. He's constantly treading between bravery and foolishness around her, as if her presence is a drug that prevents him from acting properly, from adhering to social mores.

He is not the man for her, and yet he desperately wishes he could be so.

And so, without thinking, he blurts, "It's a wonder how two people can bring out the best in each other, is it not? Almost like they're two pieces of one whole that just . . . fit perfectly."

Morgana turns to regard him, and her mouth opens slightly in surprise at his question, at his distance, but before she can reply, Lancelot du Lake appears from out of the trees some ways up the lane.

"There you are!" he exclaims, coming toward them. "Gwen was worried about you. I came at her behest, but I hope I haven't interrupted a secret rendezvous."

"Not at all," Morgana assures him easily, as if the thought would never occur to her. "We've been left behind, that's all, and haven't been able to find our way back to the party."

"Well, in that case, let me escort you," Lancelot smiles as he extends his arm toward her.

A few steps behind the arm-in-arm pair, Merlin follows, hat twirling in his hands, eyes fixed on the leaves littering the grass.

* * *

It begins with his shirts.

She laughs when he brings her the third one in five days, asks him teasingly how he manages to ruin so many in the space of a week, but then the tinge of rouge upon his cheeks and the sheepish smile he gives her make her reconsider. After that incident, she begins to observe him more carefully, and she sees that she had dismissed him too quickly. He is a prat, certainly, but there's something quite noble lurking beneath the surface.

She watches him on the lawn, with his sisters, wooden swords in hand as they play fight, and she sees how the girls adore their elder brother. She watches him with Merlin, watches him roll his eyes and tease his friend as the dark-haired man fails to prove his athletic prowess. She watches him playing whist with Morgana, two competitive natures clashing until they decide to work together. She watches him with his father, sees the way he tries to hide his pain every time his best isn't good enough.

And she watches when he comes to her, a torn shirt in his hands, a soft plea in his eyes.

"Another one?" she asks demurely.

"I'm sorry, Guinevere," he smiles, head bowed slightly. "Another one. Will you mend it for me?"

"Of course," she replies, taking the bundle from his outstretched hands and placing it on top of her sewing pile.

It's only later, when she's finished with the dress she's making and has time to repair his shirt that she finds the delicate violet hidden within its folds.

* * *

For a moment, her mind goes blank.

First she's charging on with the rest of the party, urging the horse she's borrowed from Arthur toward the looming fence, and the next she's hurtling toward the ground.

But the ground doesn't come as swiftly as she expects. She even has enough time for irritation as she recalls the jeers and comments of the men who had not wanted her to accompany the hunting party.

Then she hits the ground, her upper body thrown into the bushes, and realizes it's not as hard as it looked from atop Nimueh.

Under the pretense of being stunned by the tumble, Morgana lies in the foliage and chokes back a sob. She hadn't meant to use her magic, but this is the nature of it. It's instinctual, surging forth without being summoned.

It's the reason she wakes up screaming at night, the reason she uses the only thing available to her - her features - in a desperate attempt to hide this secret. The worst part is not being able to control it, waking up each morning knowing any day could be the day it will erupt and betray her.

She swallows down her tears and puts on a brave face as Merlin dashes to her side, throwing himself to his knees.

"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice thick with concern.

Sitting up gingerly, she nods. And when she lifts her gaze to his, his blue-gold eyes are laden with not just worry but regret. She doesn't have time to wonder why though, because, gently, he slides an arm around her waist and hoists her to her feet.

"Are you sure?" he presses. "Can you stand all right? Do you need me to fetch a doctor?"

"I'm fine, Merlin, really," she assures him, nevertheless touched by his concern. "Stunned, is all."

"I can imagine," he says, a slight smile gracing his lips. "Arthur should have let _you_ pick the horse."

He grimaces belatedly at his reminder of her situation, for her family has been forced to sell all their horses. The only reason she was able to accompany the hunt today was because of Arthur's generosity.

She squeezes his arm gratefully, hoping to put him at ease. "Yes, well, it probably would have happened with any horse I chose. I should not have tried that jump."

It's only now that she notices Alvarr Grandcourt on the other side of the fence. He stares at her from atop his mount, Neatid, and she feels as if those cold eyes could bore into her sole.

Thankfully, Merlin tips his hat and says, "Grandcourt. She's unhurt, but I will escort her back to the house. You should hurry. You wouldn't want to lose everyone."

"Of course not," Alvarr smiles. "I merely wanted to ascertain whether the lady was all right. But since my assistance is unnecessary, I must return to the hunt."

He turns his horse, and Merlin and Morgana are silent until he disappears into the trees.

"Morgana," Merlin says softly, "you're trembling."

"Am I?" she replies absently.

She hasn't realized that she's still clutching his arm like the connection will save them from the terrors she dreams of, and he's enough of a gentleman to not mention it.

"Come," he says, gently pulling her toward his horse. "Let's return to the house."

She observes quietly as he gathers Nimueh's reins and leads her and his own horse, Afanc, over to a stile to mount. Once he's settled in, he caches her hand to help her climb up behind him.

And, because there's no one around to chastise her, she snakes her arms around his waist and buries her face against his shoulder. He relaxes at her touch, and she uses the ride back to memorize his scent - ink and beeswax and cedar, like an ancient library full of books, brimming with knowledge.

* * *

"She has magic, I'm sure of it now."

Sir Gaius frowns at his nephew, the young man's agitation apparent in the way he paces across the library. He's no longer young enough to keep up with the hunt, so when the rest of the party had gone out, Gaius had stayed behind with the ladies, who were thrown into a twitter at the early return of Merlin and Miss Gorlois. Guinevere, seeing her friend's drawn expression, ushered her upstairs for a nap, leaving Merlin to recount the incident.

"That's a very serious accusation, Merlin," he reminds his nephew. "Are you sure?"

"It's not an accusation, Uncle; it's a fact." He smiles, and Gaius can see just how much he needs this. "She fell, and I-I didn't even have time to react before she . . . slowed. Uncle, she _slowed down_. In mid-air."

Gaius sighs, takes off his glasses, and rests them on top of the book laid out upon the desk. "I don't need to remind you that this is a very dangerous situation. I know you're happy that someone shares your gifts, but you should also be worried for her. From what you say, it seems that her powers have only recently manifested. If she does not also share your control, then simply going into society each day increases her risk of being caught."

Merlin pauses by the window and squares his shoulders, the heart of the valiant knight determined to defend his lady still alive and beating vibrantly in him.

"Then I will protect her," he declares.

"Merlin," the silver-haired man warns kindly.

Merlin sits back on the window sill, the afternoon sunlight glinting into the room around his frame, his face left in shadow. But Sir Gaius doesn't need to see his nephew's face to recognize the desperation in his voice.

Huskily, he says, "You don't understand. What it's like to be like me. What it's like to feel alone." He stops, shakes his head in frustration. "I can't let her suffer like that, not when I can help."

"You can help without revealing your magic, my boy. I just don't want to see the two of you getting hurt. If you told her, there would be too many secrets to keep, and secrets have a way of being found out."

* * *

It's almost like the first time he saw her.

She's across the room, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and he's standing alone, watching her from afar. She wears a gown of dark green silk, the accents around the collar bringing out those captivating eyes of hers.

His magic gives a giant lurch within his chest when she lifts her pale green gaze above the shoulder of the man fawning over her, and, like every time he meets her, he has to make a conscious effort to tuck it away inside himself. Because even though they are the same, there's an unfathomable chasm separating them. She is too good for him to risk.

And so he remains silent, even though he's almost certain she can see his abilities shining in his eyes.

He keeps his distance, finding that he is content to observe from afar rather than battle the rest of her admirers. When she breaks away from the crowd of men surrounding her with barely an apologetic glance and heads straight for him, he's frozen to the floor.

She's absolutely stunning.

"You are much admired tonight," he tells her.

"Just tonight?" she asks playfully, one eyebrow tilted. "I must be losing my touch. I thought I was admired _every_ night."

He laughs, accustomed to her teasing by now. "You take delight in teasing me, I think."

"Only because it is so easy."

Before he can reply, their host, Lancelot du Lake, announces dinner, and Alvarr Grandcourt steps to Morgana's side.

"Miss Gorlois," he greets with a small bow, "allow me to escort you."

Morgana's emerald gaze flickers to his, but there's nothing she can do. And so he stands still as a statue while she is led off by the man who, it seems, will take everything from him. But, just before they disappear into the dining hall, Morgana looks back, and Merlin realizes that his heart hasn't been completely drained of hope.

* * *

The men retire to du Lake's study following dinner, and Merlin, a cup of wine in his hand, hovers uneasily by the window as he observes Grandcourt. The blond man is sitting on the sofa, chatting with their host. A month ago, Alvarr would have (he did, in fact) shunned the du Lakes, for their mercantile fortune, for their French ways. Indeed, most of the county turned up its nose at the newcomers for these reasons. It wasn't until Arthur Pendragon took a liking to Lancelot that he and his wife, Elaine, began to be accepted, however tentatively, into society.

But Merlin is well-aware that Alvarr honors no opinions but his own, and that Arthur's influence has nothing to do with his sudden acquaintance with the du Lakes. Taking this, along with his attention to her throughout the evening, into account, he can only conclude that Alvarr is here because of Miss Gorlois.

_Morgana_.

He doesn't like to think about the two of them, because it produces a curious hollow feeling within his chest that makes breathing a little bit impossible.

Arthur walks up and claps him on the back suddenly. "Merlin, I've been meaning to talk to you."

"You've been talking to me all day," he replies.

With one of his characteristic scowls, Arthur says, "Stop being an idiot. You _know_ what I want to talk to you about."

"Do I?"

"It's Morgana," Arthur glares. "You have to understand that you and she . . . It can never happen."

Merlin, despite the ache resounding through him, puts on a smile and pretends to not know what is in store. "Why not? Am I not handsome enough for her? Is it my ears?"

Arthur frowns at him, genuine pain in his clear blue eyes. "Don't make this harder than it already is, Merlin," he says quietly. "Morgana is a lady of stature. She is accustomed to certain . . . comforts. You cannot provide that."

Merlin bites his lips, bites the rush of anger that threatens to bubble out. "And Grandcourt can?"

Arthur purses his lips, but then he sets his jaw and affirms, "Yes. Grandcourt has the means to support her and her family."

Merlin leans in and, in a low, heated tone, replies, "Simply because he has the means doesn't mean he will do so. He won't treat her as she deserves."

He can see the vein in his friend's neck pulsing angrily, and, for a moment, Merlin thinks he's going to start a scene, even though that was exactly what he was trying to avoid by bringing up this issue in a roomful of acquaintances.

But Arthur takes a breath and only says, "As you would, you mean?"

Merlin shakes his head. "Just look at him, Arthur. He's . . . dishonorable. I fear he wants Morgana simply for her status."

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then he will rise in society and she will have all the luxuries she can imagine. They will both be happy."

"You're not listening to me. Arth-"

"No," Arthur retorts, throwing a glance round the room. "Merlin, just . . . leave it. It is a lost cause."

Merlin deflates, confusion flooding his mind. The only way he could know that would be if . . .

He raises his eyes. "Has she said so herself?"

Arthur squares his shoulders and turns to face the window once more. His answer falls with an oppressive finality, like the reverberations of funeral bells heard from within the tower itself, felt from within your bones.

"Yes."

* * *

"Mr. Grandcourt," Morgana breathes in surprise, rising from the sofa as he's led in and announced by a servant. "I was not expecting you."

She's only seen him once since the day of the hunt, when she'd fallen from her horse. Even so, she remembers the hungry look in his eye when he'd come to assist her. She's seen that look every day in her mind since. She'll be forever grateful for Merlin's presence then, and forever haunted by the possibility that one or both men may have witnessed her inadvertent show of magic.

Grandcourt steps forward to greet her, and she lays aside her book, a Gaskell novel lent to her by Merlin. Her fingers trail over the spine as she lifts her hand to his.

"I apologize for this unexpected visit, but I have just made a wonderful purchase, and I could not wait to share her with you."

"I'm sorry. 'Her?'"

Grinning, Alvarr gestures toward the window with his hat. Morgana strolls over and spreads the curtain to peer out, a gasp escaping her lips when she sees a beautiful, snow white mare grazing on the lawn.

"She's gorgeous," she murmurs, almost afraid to admit it.

"You like her? She's yours."

"I couldn't possibly," she protests, thinking of the stabling cost alone. They've had to sell all their horses for that precise reason.

But Alvarr waves away practicality. "Her name is Avalon. I know how fond you are of riding. A woman like you should have a proper horse."

"'A woman like me?'" she teases, recalling a similar conversation with a much different man. "And what sort of woman is that?"

Alvarr steps closer, smiles down at her. "One who should rule the world."

* * *

Morgana Gorlois is the best archer in the county. She has, however, known this fact since she was fourteen. Seven years on, it's difficult to contain her boredom at these archery parties thrown by rich men. So when she receives a note asking her to break from her party at the lakeside clearing, she does so, viewing it as an opportunity for excitement.

The hand is unfamiliar, but she can't banish the hope in her heart that the mysterious penman will turn out to be a certain gentleman with overlarge ears, blue-gold eyes, and a crinkly smile.

When she reaches her destination, though, it is Aglain Lush who emerges from the trees.

"Mr. Lush," she breathes. "What are you doing here?"

"It was I who wrote the note," he explains. A slight smile tugging at his lips, he adds, "You were expecting someone else. Mr. Ambrose, perhaps?"

"I-I don't understand."

He stands respectfully across the clearing, hat in hands. His smile fades. "I came because I can see the way of things, and because you need to know what may happen, should you make certain choices."

She can't define it, but she trusts him. She feels as safe in his presence as she does in Merlin's, although it's a different sort of safe. "Tell me," she requests.

"I think it's better if I show you," he says, turning back into the woods. A minute later, he returns, followed by a young woman and two blond-haired children. Taking in the obvious confusion on her face, he elucidates, "This is Enmyria, her daughter, Anna, and her son . . . Alvarr, named for his father."

Morgana's legs give out beneath her, and she sinks onto a stone.

Aglain steps forward to sit beside her. "I believe this speaks for itself, but there is something else you must know." He pauses a moment, takes a breath to fortify himself, and says, "Grandcourt has magic. He has found out about yours, and he will use it against you. You cannot let that happen."

"Is that what happened to you?"

Slowly, he nods.

Morgana bows her head. In a whisper, she asks, "What am I to do? I can no longer think of only myself. I have brothers, a sister, our mother to think of."

"It is not for me to say. But I could not allow you to make the choice without knowing all the facts."

* * *

"He knows, Gwen. He knows about my magic."

The two women have gone out for morning stroll through the Pendragon gardens, still retaining their beauty even in the last bloom. The Gorlois family no longer has gardens, grounds, or even an estate. Just a tiny cottage barely big enough for the five of them.

But, her heart laden with fear, Morgana barely notices the vibrant reds, the soothing purples of the exquisite gardens, modeled in the Italian style.

"Are you certain?" Gwen asks softly.

She is afraid of magic, Morgana's realized, afraid of what it can do, but that hasn't stopped her from accepting her friendship. She is a blessing, for Morgana would not know where to turn without her.

"Yes," she nods. "I suspected after the hunting incident, but Mr. Lush confirmed it."

"What do you think he'll do? He can hardly reveal your . . . abilities without revealing his own, can he?"

Morgana shakes her head. "I hardly know. How can I marry him, knowing what I know about him? And yet, how can I not, knowing he can give my family what I cannot? He is the only thing that stands between my family and ruin."

Gwen pauses along the path, a pale yellow flower in her fingers, and says, "You must marry, that is clear now. But must it be him?"

"Gwen," Morgana says with a chuckle, "be serious. Who else would want me? I'm like one of last season's gowns, desired and admired for a time, but discarded and useless after my time is up." Gwen is silent for so long that she has to turn around to be sure she hasn't escaped by a side path. "Gwen, what is it?"

Quietly, she says, "Merlin."

It's the first time she hasn't called him "Mr. Ambrose," though Morgana doesn't need that to tell what her friend is thinking of. She simply has to take a look at her face.

The truth is that, in another life, Merlin would be everything she needs. As he intimated once, they fit together. All her life she's been fighting for purchase in a man's world, and then, when she'd met Merlin, she'd felt her life slotting against his, finally settling into place, no more struggle.

And yet, he is not the man for her.

Not now.

She lets out a breath. "Merlin . . . has cares and concerns of his own. He has only what his uncle will give, and his uncle's estate is entailed away. He has as few prospects as I do. It is . . . impractical."

A sly smile appears on Gwen's lips. "I haven't known you that long, but I would never describe you as the practical one."

Morgana shakes her head with a smile, but her mirth fades and she says, "No, but perhaps it's time I became the practical one."

* * *

The night air is chilly, though not cold enough to force Merlin indoors again. Stars twinkle down at him in his alcove as he hides in the garden on a bench, arms crossed tightly against his chest for an extra bit of warmth. He feels as if the bottom of the earth has dropped out from under him, and he's been left to freefall into the abyss.

He had attended Grandcourt's ball tonight, out of politeness, but mostly to spend the evening with Gwen, Arthur, Lancelot, and Morgana. It was not until after dinner that he and the rest of the guests had been informed of the true occasion for the evening's festivities - the engagement of Miss Morgana Gorlois and Mr. Alvarr Grandcourt.

And so Merlin had retreated to the garden, deserted due to the unpleasantly cool temperature. He can still hear, faintly, the music from the band, the laughter of those actually enjoying themselves. He considers sneaking around the lawn to the front of the manor and riding away, imagines it to be the best plan, however short-term, considering the circumstances, but he allows himself another few moments of wallowing.

There is no honor, he knows, in desiring what can never be yours, but the news has rent his heart, and he does not have the power to mend such a pain.

No one does.

He lets out a heavy sigh, telling himself that he must be resigned. As he moves to rise, a noise from near the house draws his attention. Morgana emerges out of the crowd and steps into the stillness of the night, and he presses himself back against the bushes, into the shadows where he can't be seen. Barely breathing, he observes as she closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

So she is not here to search for an absent guest, merely for a respite from the ball.

Moonlight falls lightly upon her skin, like a blessing, enhancing her pale features. The jade necklace he returned to her some weeks ago in Libron is wrapped around her wrist as a bracelet, but a brand new string of diamonds, sparkling like the stars above them, hangs around her neck. The sight of it, the blatant mark of possession, turns his stomach. Morgana, though, is calm, composed, nothing to suggest that this development is not of her own choosing. And yet he fervently wants to believe it to be so.

Alvarr appears, half-bathed in the light from the ballroom, half in shadow. He beckons to his fiancée, one hand held out for her to take. She smiles, takes his proffered hand, and disappears inside. Merlin lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

There comes a moment, in each man's life, when his heart is shattered, and he must decide to pick up the pieces and clumsily attempt to mend it, or reconcile himself to its loss and move forward. There is no easy way to do either. All he can hope for is that the choice he makes does not lead him down a path worse than the one he's currently traveling.

Until this point, Merlin has had very little true purpose in his life. He has studied, he has traveled, but it is only tonight that he realizes a man must make his own way, his own meaning. With such heavy thoughts dwelling in his mind, he dons his hat and walks 'round to the front of the manor, where he calls for his horse, mounts, and dashes away. The clatter of hooves echoes throughout the lonely night, causing him to spur on his mount, to charge faster into the darkness.


	3. The Time of Life Is Short

A/N: As usual, thanks to **wickedinsanity **for the beta! :) Thanks to those who reviewed. Season 3 in less than two weeks!

* * *

"America?" Arthur shouts, hands on his hips as he turns about the room, feeling slightly lost. "What the hell are you going to do there?"

He frowns and refuses to face his friend, so out of sorts that he's not even apologetic for using vulgarities in front of a lady. Merlin has family here, friends. He doesn't understand why anyone would give that up in order to start all over again in a new country, where he knows no one.

"More than I can do here," Merlin replies, a hint of petulance in his voice. He takes a breath and, more calmly, says, "They're rebuilding. They'll need teachers. I'll even do manual labor, if I can only come by my living honestly."

Shaking his head, Arthur plants a hand on either side of the window and looks out at the frost coating the grounds. "Well, why now? For God's sake, Merlin, it's November! The voyage will be miserable. At least wait until spring."

"The longer I wait, the more I stand to lose."

"This is ridiculous," Arthur scowls, swerving around. "Come work for us, for my father. He'll give you a position; I know he will. Just let me ask him."

Merlin opens his mouth to protest again, but Guinevere interrupts, "What Arthur's trying to say is, I think, that we'll miss you, Merlin. That we don't want you to go."

"Thank you, Gwen," Merlin chokes, managing a smile. "I'll miss you as well. But you can be sure I'll write. Every week, I promise, if only to make sure _he_'s not getting into trouble without me around."

Irritably, Arthur waves off the friendly jab as Merlin rises and crosses the drawing room. The door opens suddenly and a servant walks in, closely followed by Morgana. Merlin draws back a step and dips his head, but her eyes fall on him immediately.

"Merlin," she says in surprise. Blushing slightly, she corrects, "Mr. Ambrose. I did not expect to see you here."

Merlin, frowning, suddenly finds his shoes to be the most interesting things in the room, and Arthur has the urge to walk over and smack his tongue-tied friend on the head, knock some sense into his thick skull.

"I was just leaving," he tells her. "Excuse me."

Morgana gestures to stop his flight. "Please, don't leave on my account."

"No," he says, flustered, stepping around her and towards the door, "I wasn't. I'm sorry; I have to go. Goodbye."

He inclines his head toward Guinevere before slipping out of the room, leaving a bewildered Morgana staring in his wake. Flabbergasted, she looks between Guinevere and Arthur, neither of whom is especially eager to answer her silent query.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Morgana," Arthur sighs, taking a step forward. There's no easy way to break the news to her, especially since he knows how they feel about each other. But, like a lot of things in this life, she and Merlin are not meant to be, and that thought more than anything steels him. "Merlin's decided to go to America."

She doesn't react immediately, and he wants to say something else, something that will stop the hurt, but he's never been good at that.

Then she takes a breath, lifts her chin, and says, "Well, one fewer guest to invite to the wedding, I suppose."

He stares at her, this woman he's come to view almost as a sister, even as her jaw jumps from the tension it takes to maintain the smile. It occurs to him that he's never thought of her as wearing a façade before, but now that he's seen the crack, he can't return to regarding her as unshakable and infallible Morgana.

She's broken, just like he is.

* * *

She dreams of the sea, mighty and powerful and relentless. There's a rush of waves that overcomes everything, blocks out air, sun, coherent thought. Then a deep rumble that begins within the chest and reverberates throughout the bones until she's shaking and can no more control it than she can control the pounding of the blood through her veins. A crack of wood, the sound so loud that her heart fractures right along with it.

Then silence.

Nothing left but wreckage.

And a face. For a moment, she doesn't recognize it, but then the blurry picture crystallizes, and she recognizes dark hair, angular cheekbones, blue-gold eyes.

She wakes with a strangled cry.

* * *

Sir Gaius smiles kindly as Morgana is led into the room. "Why, Miss Gorlois," he greets as he rises, "how are you, my dear?"

A weak smile stretches across her full lips. "I am . . . I am all right, Sir Gaius. And yourself?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Please, take a seat. You look troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?"

She settles onto the sofa and takes the opportunity to compose herself. After a breath, she begins, "You know I am troubled with dreams occasionally?" Off his nod, she says, "They haven't bothered me recently, until last night. Last night, well . . . I wonder, Sir Gaius, is Mr. Ambrose here? I was hoping to see him."

The change in subject surprises him almost as much as the request itself, which he is powerless to provide. "I'm sorry, Morgana. He isn't here. He's purchasing some items for his trip."

The blood drains from her face, already so pale. "Then he is going? To America?"

Gaius nods grimly. He had done his best to persuade his nephew otherwise, but Merlin was adamant about new opportunities. "I'm afraid so. Morgana, what's this about?"

A far-off look appears in her eye, but he does not press further. After a moment, she seems to recover herself and says, "He cannot go, to America. He cannot go."

"You are not the only one who does not want him to go, but -"

"No," she interrupts quickly, fire in her gaze, "it's not just that I don't _want_ him to go; it's that he _can't_. I . . . I had a dream, of a shipwreck. Do you understand?"

He does. He has known Morgana Gorlois since her infancy, and he has known about her dreams for almost as long. The startling dreams she hid from her father and his friends, the dreams that left her terrified, the dreams that had an alarming tendency to come true.

"A shipwreck?" Gaius asks. "You are sure it is his ship?" Morgana only nods, and he says, "Well, then, I will talk to him."

* * *

Morgana is the only one at home when he calls, and she wonders if this was by accident or design. From his hesitant manner, she can guess that this goodbye, as uncomfortable as it is, is easier than it would have been in front of her family. Her poor mother adores him, treats him as a son, and all of her siblings look up to him. But his departure will be hardest on Owen, her youngest brother. Just eight years old, he won't be able to fathom why his new friend is leaving, and the stack of novels that friend is leaving as a farewell present will hardly soften the blow.

But even as he explains his situation, she can't quite concentrate on what he says. A latent terror, which she's done her best to smother inside her heart ever since her conversation with Sir Gaius a little over a week ago, stirs as he speaks, grows louder and less ignorable with his every word.

Merlin twists his hat in his hands, a nervous habit of his that she won't be seeing again. "Well," he says quietly, "I'm leaving quite early tomorrow, but I didn't want to go without saying goodbye. I hope you will extend my farewell to your family as well."

"So soon?" she breathes.

Talk is one thing, but a fixed date quite another. It is as if a giant weight has dropped upon her chest, crushing her lungs, and she suddenly finds it difficult to breathe.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But the sooner I sail, the sooner I can find a situation."

"Then Sir Gaius is resigned to your departure?"

"He is far from happy, but yes. I owe him much, and I am grateful for his advice, but it will not stop me from going, especially since I mean to make my own way over there."

Morgana does not know what else to say to convince him. She relies on her ability to persuade others, whether through her words and ideas or simply by her beauty, but this is a failure that wounds far more than her pride. Fortune has dangled this man before her, taunting her with his goodness, looking on impassively as her efforts to keep him fail miserably.

Luckily, Owen dashes into the room, distracting her from her despair. He still has his coat and boots on, and his cheeks are red with cold, signs of his adventures outdoors.

"Mr. Merlin!" the boy shouts as he runs over to where the man of the hour is seated upon the sofa. "Mr. Merlin! I saw Afanc outside, and that's how I knew you were here. Have you come to go riding with us? Or to show me how to shoot? Or to give me a new book? Or-"

"Slow down, slow down there," Merlin laughs. He points to the pile of books on the table. "I brought you some books right over there. Why don't you go and take a look, see how you like them?"

Owen pages through the volumes eagerly, delight on his face, until he reaches the last one.

"_Ivanhoe_?" he asks, his young voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes," Merlin smiles. "My favorite, remember?"

Owen stares down at the book again, runs his fingers across the worn cover. "I remember. And I remember how you said you loved it so much that you wouldn't give it up to anyone. I remember how you said you'd find me another, but this isn't another. This is _yours_."

Frowning, Merlin dips his head. "Yes, well, there's something I need to tell you, Owen. You see, I'm going away. Tomorrow morning, I'm getting on a ship, and I'm going across the ocean to America. I can't take these books with me, so I need you to look after them for me. Can you do that?"

"You're leaving? But you promised that we'd play pirates, and that you'd help me build a fort, and that you'd take me to see the Great Exhibition. You promised that! How could you promise! How could you _leave_?"

He gives Merlin a furious shove and then flees the room, wearing the unmistakable, agonizing expression of a betrayed child.

Merlin, hat still twirling between his slender fingers, closes his eyes and swallows. "I should go," he announces as he stands. "I apologize for that. Tell him I'll write when I can."

He's almost gone, almost out of the door and gone from her life forever.

"Please," she breathes, "is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay?"

Before reason can stop her, she crosses to him and presses her palms to his chest. He stiffens beneath her touch, as if he would sooner run from the room than surrender to it. There's wariness in his eyes, wariness of her, and the coldness sends a tiny fissure through her heart. How can he blame her? How, when he is in the same position, when he knows how difficult and impossible and heartbreaking it is to navigate this treacherous world?

And so, without thinking, Morgana lifts herself onto her toes and brushes her lips against his.

But Merlin, hands on her arms, pushes her gently yet firmly away.

"Don't you understand?" she asks. "You already have my heart."

Shaking his head, he says, "But another has your hand. Save your kisses for him," and turns to go.

She watches his retreat, watches him make the easy decision. She swallows hard. "If you only knew how much I care for you."

He pauses but keeps his back toward her. "It is because I do know that I must go," he tells her softly.

And then he dons his hat and disappears.

* * *

Gwen frowns, a crease in her delicate brow, as she hems one of Elizabeth's dresses and flits glances at Arthur, who stares moodily out the window, his arms crossed as he huffs quietly. Elizabeth sits on the other side of the sofa, reading and pretending to not pay attention to her elder brother and their houseguest.

Gwen sighs and finally breaks the silence. "How can we just let him go?"

"He is doing what he thinks best, Guinevere."

She smiles at the endearment. He is the only one who calls her by her given name. But it does not calm her at the moment; she's too full - of regret, of sadness, of futility. "He is abandoning the woman he loves. How can you let him do that? You are his closest friend; you can talk some sense into him."

Arthur turns, a scowl on his handsome face. "And what am I to do? Tell him there is hope when there is none? I cannot do that to him, to either of them."

She takes a deep breath and pulls the thread gently through the silk. "Why do you and Morgana insist there is no hope? She is not married yet. And she has told me that he has a mistress and two children. Surely those are grounds for objection."

"No," he sighs. "It is not illegal to have a mistress. Immoral and despicable, certainly, but not illegal."

Gwen shakes her head at the look on his face. She knows all the arguments - that the Gorlois family is ruined, and needs a protector; that Brandon is too young to take on that role now, too young to find steady, well-paying work; that Mrs. Gorlois, as a widow, is unlikely to attract another husband. She knows all that, and yet she refuses to believe it, refuses to believe that two people can give up on each other so easily.

"Is there not something we can do about it?"

"What would you have me do? Marry her myself?"

Gwen chuckles, because, just a few weeks ago, that _may_ have been the best solution. But then her smile fades at the despair in his voice, the same despair she sees in Morgana's eyes. "I know what this is about," she tells him quietly.

"Guinevere, no, it's not about that."

"No?" Her gaze remains trained on the hem, but one eyebrow lifts in a challenge.

"No. Do you honestly think me so petty, Guinevere?" He drops his voice, though Elly's ears have perked up. "I would not begrudge my friends happiness simply because I have been denied my own. There is just . . . nothing I can do. They have made up their minds. Far be it from me to interfere. Besides, perhaps it's best this way."

Aggravated, Gwen drops the dress into her lap. "I don't agree. They are our _friends_. If we care, we must help."

"Love does not conquer everything."

"I know that, Arthur. But sometimes, for some people, it is enough."

Arthur stares at her until a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Well, if you happen to come up with a plan, now would be a good time to say something."

After he bids them goodbye and leaves the room, all the pieces fall into place for her.

* * *

The morning is pleasant, much more pleasant than it should be for a November morning, than it should be for the morning of his departure. But Morgana tamps that thought down as she stares across the room and out at the fresh frost coating the hills. Alvarr has joined the family for breakfast, but, as he's sitting at one end of the table rustling the paper, his presence isn't a huge burden. It also distracts from Owen's absence, though Morgana presumes that the boy is either sleeping late or already out traipsing in the woods on an imaginary adventure. Alvarr doesn't seem to mind that her brother is gone, doesn't even pay attention to her two other siblings who are sitting obediently at the table.

Morgana takes a sip of tea just as her mother whirls in, a curl slipping out of her delicately-pinned hair.

"Mother, what is it?"

Brandon and Katherine perk up at the disturbance, although Alvarr takes a long moment to fold the paper and look over.

"It's your brother," Mrs. Gorlois announces breathless. "It's Owen! He can't be found anywhere!"

"Well, maybe he's just outside. He could be anywhere. You know what kind of trouble he gets into," she reasons in an attempt to calm her distraught mother.

"I know! I've sent James out to look, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Oh, Morgana, his bed hasn't been slept in."

Morgana stands up and hastens toward the doorway.

Alvarr clears his throat. "Where are you going, my dear?"

She turns and fixes him with a steely glare, in disbelief that he can be so calm. "To find Owen."

"Relax," he says with a shake of his head, his eyes flicking over the paper he's already picking up again. "He's a spoiled boy. He's probably just out in the woods pretending to be a knight or something. He'll be back by supper, mark my words."

"That 'spoiled boy' is my brother," she fumes, "and if he's missing, then you can be sure I will be the first to go out searching. And if you won't go with me, then, then . . ." She gapes, coherency rapidly draining from her.

"Then what?" he smiles.

Morgana stammers, because he has her. He has knowledge of her magic, and she, who has nothing to barter with, can only slump dejectedly under his steely gaze.

"I'm going to look for my brother."

Smirking, he leans back in his chair and lets her go. She lets out a relieved sigh as she leaves, knowing how easily he could have stopped her. At least he's given her this.

* * *

The moment Merlin enters his cabin, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he knows that he's not alone. He freezes, his eyes raking around the room until he spots a pair of tiny boots sticking out from beneath the bunk. With a frown, he sets his bag quietly on the mattress, stoops down, and, wrapping his hands around the intruder's ankles, drags him out into the cabin.

Owen squirms onto his back and away from Merlin, covering his face with an arm.

Merlin sighs. "Owen, what are you doing here?"

"You said you were going away. I didn't want you to go away without me. I wanted to come with you."

He takes his hat off to run a hand through his hair and purses his lips as he looks at the young boy. "Does your mother know you're here?" But Owen just stares blearily, and he can guess the answer. He holds out a hand to help the boy up. "Well, come on then. Let's get you home."

He's come to the port alone, so there's no one he trusts to send back with Owen, and he's forced to give up his berth in order to return him himself. They're halfway back to the Gorlois cottage when Owen, complaining of the cold and the long walk, stops on the side of the road and plops down by a fence.

"Hey, hey, buddy," Merlin says as he doubles back and kneels in front of him. "You're cold?" Owen nods, and Merlin takes off his outer coat and wraps it around the boy's tiny shoulders. He takes off a glove and holds his hand out, palm up. "Let me show you something, a trick I learned when I was a kid. But you have to promise not to tell anyone, all right?"

Owen gives a quiet promise, and then a flame materializes and jumps above Merlin's palm. A grin forms on Owen's face as he holds his smaller hands towards the orange flame to feel the warmth. Merlin scoops him up with one arm, leaving the heat source within his reach, and begins to carry him down the road.

After walking a mile in comfortable silence, Merlin says, "I know you're mad at me, but I also want you to know that I won't be going away forever. I'll write to you, even if you don't write back, and I'll be back before you know it. Just because I'm leaving, doesn't mean I'm leaving you, you understand?"

"Like Papa?" Owen asks.

Merlin takes a deep breath. "Your father, Owen, misses you very much, and I'm sure he wishes he could be here with you now. Do you want to know something?"

"Another secret?"

"Sort of," Merlin smiles, because it is, but he's not sure he's afraid of the consequences anymore. "I never knew my father. He died before I was born. But he left me something very special. Do you know what?"

Owen twists his lips thoughtfully. "Your books?"

"My magic."

"Mother says we're not supposed to talk about magic. Not even when Morgy has her dreams."

"Your sister has dreams? Scary ones? Ones that come true?" Owen nods to all his questions, and Merlin continues, "Do you know that there are people in this world who believe that magic is a crime? But that isn't true. It is a gift. And people like your sister are brave, and good, and you must remember that it's the man who makes the magic, not the other way around. Your sister could use reminding of that every once in a while."

"I can do that."

"Can you? When I'm gone, will you be the one to tell her that she is amazing, and that she mustn't listen to anyone who says otherwise? Will you tell her not to be afraid? Because she isn't alone. She's never alone."

"I'll tell her, Mr. Merlin. I'll tell her for you."

"Thank you, Owen." Merlin tousles the boy's hair. "And you be good to her. She takes good care of you, you know."

Owen smiles. "I know."

By the time they reach the cottage, it's nearly noon, and Owen's fallen asleep with his head resting on Merlin's shoulder. They're shown in by Hill, the Gorlois family's oldest servant, who can't conceal her relief at the young master's safe return. Mrs. Gorlois is the only member of the family in, all the younger ones having gone out on the search for Owen.

"You gave me such a fright," she chastises her son, stooping down to his level to pull him into a fierce embrace. He murmurs an apology into her shoulder, and she looks up at Merlin. "How can we ever thank you?"

"Please," he smiles, "I'm only happy that he is safe. Your joy is all the gratitude I need."

"Well, please, come for dinner tonight. It's the least we can do, and I know Morgana will like to see you."

He had been relieved to find out that Miss Gorlois would not be here, and he doesn't think he can face her tonight, not after he's begun taking his leave of her in his heart already. No, Grandcourt will most likely join the company, and he doesn't have the strength to watch them together.

Shaking his head, he says, "That's very kind, but I really should be going."

He turns to go.

"Oh, Mr. Ambrose . . . your coat."

He faces the room again to find Owen still bundled in his coat, refusing to let his mother take it off.

Merlin smiles sadly. "Keep it. I have another."

* * *

While Morgana searches for Owen, Gwen and Arthur are on quests of their own, and the effects of their machinations are these: that Gwen convinces Sir Gaius of the necessity and brilliance of the plan, but, when his nephew returns to Ealdor House, he does not disclose his intentions, for there is another party involved, and he is loath to breathe a word until he's certain of the outcome.

However, his nephew expresses his frustration with missing his berth on the ship and remaining in England, and a desire to sail to Ireland to visit an old friend. While this is a great deal better than him going to America, and certainly less permanent, Sir Gaius still chooses to say nothing.

Arthur and Lancelot, meanwhile, prove to be quite adept at following an enemy. They tail Grandcourt to an old tavern, as dingy and grimy as the man himself, and hide in the back corner as he meets with another shadowy figure. The name of this man is Tauren, and he is a known sorcerer and leader of the rebellion. Arthur grins when he recognizes him, for indeed, simply familiarity with Tauren is enough to land Grandcourt on the next ship to Australia.

The accusations are made, the case brought forth, the verdict swiftly dealt. As the local magistrate, Uther Pendragon is stern and unforgiving against all who associate with sorcerers. However, like Arthur suspected, Grandcourt's counteraccusation against Morgana falls on deaf ears. Gorlois was Pendragon's oldest friend, and he doesn't entertain for a moment the notion that his eldest daughter could have magic, least of all because this dishonorable excuse for a man says so.

And so Miss Gorlois is relieved of her engagement by virtue of her betrothed's criminality.

* * *

_My dear boy,_

_I hope this letter finds you in better spirits tan you were when you left England. I've realized that the house is lonely without you, and I do hope you don't stay long in Ireland. _

_I have something of great importance to tell you which I want you to hear from me. I promised your mother that I would look after you, though it comes to my attention that I haven't been doing a very good job. You are enduring a miserable separation from the one you love, and I have been too dull to see the solution right in front of my myopic eyes. _

_As you know, I have never married. There was a girl - an older woman, rather - in my youth, but I have never had the inclination to live a fully settled life. God gives men gifts, however, and gifts are meant to be shared. I am rich, and yet need very little to live on, which means that my wealth can be put to good use. I can think of no better recipients for it than the Gorlois family._

_Mrs. Gorlois has accepted my offer of companionship, and, depending on when you return, you may find her and her family already established here. It shall be nice for the manor to have occupants once more. As you will be sure to guess though, it is unlikely that any heirs will result from this union, which means that Grandcourt's cousin will inherit the estate. I'm sorry, my boy, but you know you will always have whatever you ask of me, and you know that my stepchildren will each be privy to a share of the fortune._

_Give my hellos to William, and do hurry back. Owen is especially eager to see you._

_Your Affectionate Uncle,_

_Sir Gaius_

_

* * *

_

The scent of winter fills him as he inhales deeply and steps down from the coach and into the six-inch-deep snow. Ealdor House is still a mile or so down the road, but the February morning is crisp and clear, and he welcomes the exercise. Hat perched on his dark hair and ears quickly reddening in the chill, he takes his bag from the footman and starts off down the lane. His boots sink into the snow, dampening the cuffs of his trousers. As he traipses towards home, he watches his exhalations mushroom in front of his face.

He arrives at his uncle's without alerting the servants or inhabitants. The grounds are deserted, and he takes the opportunity to peer in at the window, through which he observes a stunning, though not unexpected, sight.

His uncle sits at the head of the breakfast table, a charmed smile on his wizened face. His new wife is seated across from him, and Merlin recognizes Brandon's adolescent form and Katherine's girlish curls. There are complacent smiles all around. He can only imagine how much of a refuge Ealdor House must seem to them.

He's still standing there, a pensive frown on his face, when a ball of snow hits him square on the back of the neck, knocking his hat askew, icy beads dripping down his collar.

"Who-"

He whirls, stops when another snowball smacks him in the face. Spluttering out tiny shards of ice, he wipes the snow out of his eyes and comes face to face with the culprits.

"I should have known," he grins.

Morgana laughs, the sound like a balm hat washes over and cleanses the wounds he's nursed these past months, and Owen darts forward to wrap his arms around Merlin's legs.

"What did you expect, Mr. Ambrose?" Morgana asks with a sparkle in her pale green eyes. "You waltzed right into enemy territory."

"And here I thought I was returning home."

"You've been misinformed. This is not Ealdor House. This is the kingdom of the dread zombie king, and it is up to us to defeat him."

"Then, since I'm here, what is there to do except join in your quest?"

And once he takes up arms against the dread zombie king, it's another few hours before anyone else realizes he's come home.

* * *

Sir Gaius invites the Pendragons to dinner, to celebrate Merlin's return. Merlin appreciates the gesture, mostly because he hasn't seen Gwen and Arthur in months. Gwen is her usual pleasant self, happy to see him and eager to hear of his trip, while Arthur is a bit more subdued. After dinner, the men retire to the library, where Gaius and Uther sit in the corner engaged in a quiet discussion, and Owen and Brandon are consumed by a heated game of chess, leaving Merlin and Arthur to catch up, although they mostly sit in comfortable silence.

The first thing Arthur says is, "Do me a favor, Merlin."

Merlin sits up in his armchair. The day's events have tired him, and he's struggling to keep his eyes open. "Wha's tha?" he mumbles.

Arthur looks over, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "You've got a second chance. Don't . . . Don't ruin it."

Merlin lets a small smile come to his face as he looks at his friend. "Only if you do me a favor as well."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Gwen, well, she's amazing. I know what it's like to lose every ounce of hope, and trust me, it hurts more than you can even imagine. So . . . don't ruin that."

Arthur doesn't answer, simply gazes out the window contemplatively.

* * *

Over the past few weeks, Merlin's learned that Morgana's favorite place to be, besides the library, is the garden. Even in the frigid March air, she spends her mornings wrapped in a coat and walking through the rows of hedges and stems, just beginning to regain their bloom.

One bright Thursday morning, when just a hint of spring hangs in the wintry air, Merlin steps out into the garden. Her back is turned toward him, and she doesn't turn to acknowledge him as he approaches, even as his footsteps crunch over the gravel. Stopping a few feet behind and to her right, he bends down to pluck a dead stem.

He holds it up, his eyes aglow as it blossoms into a vibrant lily between his fingers.

As if sensing his magic, Morgana turns, and a smile graces her lips when she sees him.

* * *

Morgana sits comfortably on the mattress, hands tucked under her thighs, face toward the porthole as moonlight shines through to caress her skin. The cabin bed is small, barely big enough for two, but she doesn't mind. She's been across the channel before, but this is the first time she's been on a proper sea voyage, and the anticipation coursing through her veins keeps her awake.

Arthur had once said that Fortune smiles upon her. She hadn't believed it, because her once prosperous life had disappeared, replaced with misery and confusion and the most difficult choices she's ever had to make. But as she takes a deep breath, breathes in the fresh salty air, she wonders if there had been a purpose to all of that pain, if all of it had been a necessary journey to get to where she is tonight.

She smiles as the bed sheets rustle, her smile widening as he slides his arms around her waist and drops a tender kiss against her neck.

"Why are you still awake?" he murmurs, his voice groggy with sleep.

She reaches back to thread her fingers through his rich dark hair, her heart full with the realization that she is now in possession of what she thought would be denied to her forever. She shrugs. "I'm just taking it all in, that's all."

His lips brush against her skin, sending a trail of warmth down her spine, as he says, "Why don't you do that in the morning?"

She turns toward him and places a hand against his chest. "Because I have you all to myself now."

Chuckling, he pulls her down for a kiss, one hand on her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. "So selfish," he teases gently.

"Did you expect anything less, after my upbringing?" she asks, resting her forehead against his. She can feel his heartbeat beneath her palm, vibrant and good and true, everything she's waited for all this time. It's a reassurance, that her voice is heard, that hope exists, that she is not alone.

Letting out a deep, relieved sigh, she lies down beside him, her head nestled in the crook of his neck.

"What do you think it will be like?" she asks softly.

"I think . . . it will be a new beginning."

Morgana smiles. Exactly what they need. With the war over, the north will need people like them, people with magic, in order to rebuild. They in turn need a place to belong, and the prospect of forging a life by his side is one that sets her worried mind at ease. But for all the hope she feels regarding their intertwined future, there is a pang in her heart when she thinks of those they've left behind.

"And Gwen and Arthur? What of them?"

Frowning, Merlin lifts a lock of her hair and twirls it distractedly around his forefinger. "I fear they will not have their chance in Uther's lifetime. But someday."

She reaches up to run a thumb across his jaw. "I hope you are right."

He presses his forehead to her cheek and murmurs with a smile, "I am. You'll see."

She rolls over his chest and tucks her hair behind her ear so it doesn't fall into his face. Smiling down at him, she says, "If we have achieved happiness beyond odds, Gwen and Arthur can as well."

Merlin, grinning, leans up to kiss her, and Morgana's heart swells.

Arthur once said that Fortune smiles upon her, but the truth is, Morgana Ambrose is blessed beyond all belief.


End file.
